While the Shadows Fall
by caraniente
Summary: Oneshots - Bishop-centric. Rated for language and mature content. Undergoing partial rewrite, including the lemon! First submission, reviews get cookies.
1. Ambush!

I was originally writing this as a full story, but I don't have the time to put into it so I've decided to put up some random scenes involving Bishop and my KC, Rhade.

This is my first submission, reviews very welcome but please be kind and don;t put me off too much :)

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Bishop, or any characters apart from Rhade. **

* * *

_Bishop:_

'The Flagon is under attack! _The Flagon is under attack!_'

I'm alert instantly, the gift of long years of dawn I'd guess, by the thin light at the edge of the drapes.

'Good. I was looking for an excuse to kill something today,' I scowl, rolling out of bed and throwing on a pair of trews. My sword-belt with its twin scimitars hangs on the bed-post, in easy reach should any of the more stupid patrons decide to pay me a late-night visit. I buckle it on, and sling my quiver over a bare shoulder. No time for armour. Grabbing my longbow and notching an arrow, I slide open the door and peer out, drawing the bow in readiness.

Duncan is stood up the corridor, his back to me. For a second my fingers tighten on the bowstring, but then a hissing sound comes from my left and I swing quickly toward the common room, where two ugly-looking green things are making straight for me. Whatever in the hells they are, the first goes down like anything else with an arrow through its throat. Grinning to myself, I quickly send another arrow to remove the second.

Duncan's gone.

I make for the common room, where the racket tells me the battle is. Chaos reigns in the open space. Tables kicked over and broken, shouting, screams. Those green-skinned bastards are everywhere, in combat with most of the current clientele – the girl's bunch of pet misfits.

The _paladin_ in the thick of it of course, trying to protect the half-wit gnome and the demon girl. The starved tree-hugger in a corner, flanked by animals. The dwarf running headlong into a crowd of enemies like a demented cannonball. I smile again as a crumpled, red-robed figure on the floor catches my eye – the red-headed sorceress bitch, though unfortunately it looks like she's only unconscious and not dead. But there's time for that.

Moving silently to a corner, I begin to fire. No point risking my neck in close combat when there's so many willing to risk theirs. I loose a few arrows toward anything near enough and stupid enough to decide I'm a likely-looking target, then the door to the common room bangs open again and _she_ comes in. Half-dressed, no less, in a cotton slip. Shame Duncan had raised the warning – the fight would have been much more entertaining if none of the women had had chance to dress.

I draw, aiming carefully, but she ducks behind the massive shape of the paladin and begins casting. Typical mage – always looking for some dumb bastard to hide behind. And the holy warrior certainly qualifies for that.

However – I allow myself a sadistic smile – today she might have more than she bargained for. A couple of enemies from the other side of the room are racing for her, attention drawn by the magical missiles that burst from her outstretched fingertips. I consider dropping one with an arrow, but decide against it. _If she's too weak to fend them off she's not worth the effort_.

I turn my attention back to shooting as another one makes a run at me, then risk a glance sideways. Just in time to see her bury a katana in the throat of the second green thing. The first one is already gushing blood at her feet, the short sword in her off-hand dripping red.

_What the fuck?_

I'd seen those swords she carries, of course – but figured they were just decoration. I've never seen any mage use a sword without cutting their own fingers off, let alone two at once.

The remaining enemies are quickly finished off by a combination of her spells and the other's weapons. I take a moment to appreciate her figure, wild-haired, her slip falling only to mid-thigh and spattered with blood from the two she'd taken down earlier. I'd thrown an insult at her last night thinking she was that useless barmaid before I'd realised my mistake. _If I'd seen that cleavage beforehand I might have held my tongue…_ Mind, as usual she'd proven to have wits as sharp as her sword.

I bend beside the nearest body, listening with half an ear and looking to retrieve anything of value, when something catches my eye.

_Well now. This could prove useful…_Got to play my cards I do – I can get this particular millstone from round my neck, maybe put one over on the inn-keeper for the trouble too…

Duncan is ranting about the blonde farm-girl having been kidnapped - he'd been eyeing her last night like a dog in heat. That's my cue.

'You better hurry if you want to get her back,' I comment, straightening and allowing myself a kick at the body at my feet. 'This one has a sprig of Duskwood trapped in his boot. That means they came from deep within Luskan territory – and you can bet that's where'll they'll be returning to.'

'Duskwood?' The idiot innkeepers face creases in a frown. Hells, I've already given him all the information he needs. 'Luskan – that's your territory, Bishop.' His ale-addled eyes hold a challenge.

Ha. 'Yeah, but it's not my problem,' I scowl.

'You _will_ help them. Whether you like it or not.' The inn-keeper's voice holds the tiniest hint of wavering steel, and my fingers tighten on my bow, increasing the tension in the string, a silent threat as I take a couple of steps toward him.

'And what makes you think…' I growl, then let a look of understanding dawn on my face. 'Calling it due, Duncan? And for such a low price, too. You're a fool.'

_Perfect._

'If that's what it takes to get you to do the right thing, then so be it.' He lifts his chin defiantly but I see fear flicker in his eyes.

I turn to the girl, who's frowning – seemingly puzzled by the whole exchange. Not that it matters – if she doesn't know the whole story, I'm sure Duncan'll fill her in soon enough. The blabbering idiot never knows to keep his mouth shut.

I bark instructions to the group, not bothering to cushion my phrases in flowery words. I'll leave that to nobles – and paladins. It's also intended to make it clear from the off that I'm the one leading this little trip. There's no way I'm taking orders from anyone, least of all some half-elf mage bitch who fancies herself a warrior, sharp tongue or no.

She doesn't say anything to counter my instructions – she doesn't need to. She pauses just long enough that it's obvious that the rest of the group aren't going to jump unless she says so, then nods. 'A small group; Khelgar, Casavir, Neeshka, get your stuff together. Only the essentials – we'll need to move fast. Elanee, see what you can do for the wounded.'

_Huh. At least she has more of a brain than her Uncle._

_

* * *

Rhade:_

I eye the ranger as he moves around the room, retrieving unbroken arrows, face set in his usual scowl. I've seen him enough times, and traded enough insults – that damned comment about wenches and brothels comes to mind instantly. I'd actually started to doubt he was ever sober enough to aim that bow propped by his side, but he'd proven me wrong this morning, drunk or not.

Duncan grabs my arm as I head for my room. 'Lass,' he murmurs nervously. 'You be careful now. Bishop… he's not someone you should trust.'

I glance back at the ranger. 'So why send him?' I ask, curious. It had sounded like the ranger owed Duncan something – though why he'd be concerned by a debt, I don't know. Somehow he doesn't seem the honourable type.

Duncan sighs. 'Because he may be a backstabbing, murderous son of a whore, but he's the best tracker on the Sword Coast. If anyone can find those bastards, he can. Besides, he knows Luskan territory like the back of his hand – runs jobs that way as a smuggler when he's not lurking around here.'

He releases my arm, concern in his eyes. 'Just watch yourself, alright?'

I nod, letting my eyes stray back to the surly figure. I was particularly annoyed at the way he'd called for us all to follow his lead like thick-witted children. While my present companions weren't a mix I would have chosen, they were – with the exception of the spoilt Qara, who I tried to avoid – finally starting to settle in together. I'd even gotten a smile out of the paladin in response to one of my increasingly desperate jokes the other day. And I didn't think Bishop was going to add well to that mix. But I have to admit I'm not Faerûns best when it comes to following a trail, and I'd rather Shandra's safety didn't depend on my getting lucky.

It seemed we needed him, for now.

Snapping out of my reverie, I realise my eyes are still on him, and I find myself appreciating the play of lean muscle under his tanned skin. Quickly I drag my eyes away. _Idiot._ He's no more impressive than Casavir – who unfortunately had found the time to put a shirt on. Mind, I suspect if he hadn't, he'd have been too embarrassed to fight. I grin to myself at the thought of him trying to cover and defend himself at the same time. Gods, he blushed enough when I bandaged his shoulder after the orcs.

The ranger, his search over, begins to head back to his room. He pauses alongside me. 'Better hurry, princess. I won't wait forever, you know,' he says mockingly, then continues walking.

I'm severely tempted to tell him to fuck off back to the local brothel.


	2. Supposed to be Alone

I lean my head back against the tree. Oh, gods. Tomorrow I have to stand trial. For murdering an entire village. In front of Lord Nasher. And if I fail, I'll be taken to Luskan. Somehow, I can't imagine that's a situation I'll get out of easily. They've gone to a lot of trouble to get me – I doubt they'll let me off without making me suffer for it first.

It wouldn't be an easy death.

Xanth, who is lurking overhead, sends me a warning. Only one person could have gotten close enough without me noticing.

'The entire point of coming out to the woods to be alone was to _be_ _alone_, Bishop,' I say, and am rewarded by the slight surprise in his eyes as he steps out of the trees beside me.

'Well now, couldn't let our captain wander all alone in the woods at night. Who knows what dangerous things you might run into?' Those amber eyes regard me mockingly.

'I think the only dangerous things are in this clearing,' I comment dryly, and he snorts, stepping close to me.

'Just be grateful I'm here, captain. However dangerous you may think you are.' He finishes almost contemptuously, and the challenge calls the anger, already close to the surface, to a quick boil. I step back from him, drawing my katanas.

'I'm getting a little tired of this "little girl" thing,' I comment coldly. 'How about you draw your weapons, and we'll see how dangerous I can be.'

He sizes me up briefly, then his face twists into a feral smile. 'As you wish, _Captain_,' he sneers softly, drawing his twin blades and dropping into a fighting crouch.

I hold up a hand and mutter a spell under my breath. The air around me sparks briefly, and I feel the tingle as the shielding spell hardens over my skin. I quickly cast the same spell on Bishop, who gives me a quizzical glance.

'I wouldn't want any… accidents… to happen,' I tell him, one eyebrow raised pointedly. He chuckles darkly, and the sound ripples down my spine.

'Out here, Captain – alone – do you really think you could stop me doing anything I wanted?' he asks, and then - he attacks.

The clash of iron on steel rings through the clearing. I've seen him fight – I have to admit I don't know if I can beat him. But I know I can come close enough to surprise him, if nothing else. He fights silently, those burning amber eyes fixed on me, swords swinging like a whirlwind of death. And somehow, I keep parrying his attacks. The anger I've been holding back from the last few days is rising up in my chest, powering my swings. I'm pleased to see him wince quickly when I spin a strike in to his shoulder, flipping the blade at the last minute so only the flat hits.

Then he suddenly ducks beneath my guard, and before I know it my feet are out from under me. I land on my back, the breath knocked from me, and he's on me before I've managed to reconnect my brain to the hands holding my swords, let alone work out where those hands are.

Pinning me, he leans over me, his breathing ragged. I can feel the heat of his body pressed against me, lean and strong. It's bringing a heat I've been keeping suppressed to the surface. He lowers his head, his lips pausing just above the scar on my chest where it rises from my armour, and tracing it up to my neck – less than an inch from my skin. For a moment he stops, inhaling as if taking my scent – which he probably is, Bishop often seeming more animal than human. To my surprise, his grip on my arms loosens. But I find I don't want to get away. Instead, my mind lost to the maelstrom of emotions and tension that has been building up for days, weeks even, I reach up and pull his head down to mine.

The kiss hits me like a lightning bolt, taking the air from my lungs and sending shivers down my spine. Without meaning to my fingers tangle in that short tousled hair, pulling him closer. His body presses tighter against me, and ever through two layers of leather armour I can feel the heat of it.

At which point some failsafe mechanism kicks in from the depths of whatever remains of my brain, and through the fog of hormones I realise that I'm alone. In the woods. With _Bishop_. And he really could do anything here without me being able to stop him. Which brings just a faint tremor of fear.

I pull back, and before he's expecting it, I twist under him, reversing our positions. My katana is at his throat in a second as he stares up at me in shock.

'Does this mean I win?' I ask him teasingly, hoping for just for a few brief seconds to regain control over my traitorous body.

With a growl, he knocks me backwards, forcefully enough that my head once again hits the dirt. He glares at me furiously, then disappears out of the clearing.

* * *

_Bishop:_

I lean back, letting my head settle back against the tree trunk, heart racing after my run through the forest.

Fool. Why did you leave? She kissed you. You could have got as close to her as you wanted – could have _had_ her! That was the plan!

Except it hadn't been real… had just been a play, her way of distracting him and getting the advantage. He shouldn't have let his attraction to her be so obvious. But having her pinned beneath him, the curves of that luscious body swelling against him, her chest rising and falling as she fought to get her breath back…. He'd barely been able to resist pressing his lips against it, tasting her skin, seeing if it tasted as spicy as her scent…

And why not? It'd been what he'd been planning from the start, after all. Get close to the girl, put one over on the innkeeper. He'd been surprised when she'd kissed him – hadn't expected her to give in so quickly, so easily…

Except it wasn't giving in, was it? She'd used him… used his lust against him, and next thing he knew she'd been the one pinning him…

So what? You could've pulled that sword from her hand… turned the tables again. How much of a fight would she really have put up? Especially with the trial tomorrow… a bit of fun before Luskan behead her…

You could've done whatever you wanted…

But it wasn't real… she didn't want me…

And since when have you cared about that?

… oh, _hells_…


	3. Not in a party mood

I force a smile at Neeshka, who is dancing with Darmon, then look around at my companions – they all seem to be having a good time, laughing joking and dancing. No-one is looking my way. I retreat quietly to the side exit, grabbing my cloak on the way. The drinks are flowing and the bard is singing – my presence will not be overly missed. Stepping out into the night I shiver slightly, then cross to the small gate that marks the city limits. Thank the gods Duncan's inn was so close to the edge of the city confines. Picking my way through the trees of the patch of woodland that sits outside the city gates is an interesting experience – the dress I'd picked to wear to the party, while slit high to allow me free movement, was hardly designed for winding my way through woodland and the branches catch on my skirt.

He watches her from his place in the shadows as she glances around furtively before slipping out. He waits, watches for a few minutes, then when she doesn't reappear his eyes narrow. He stops at the bar, takes a bottle of firewhisky, before making his way to the gates. Outside there is a small patch of woodland; he's seen her escape to it before. Karnwyr tends to hide out there on some of his shorter visits to the city. He's not sure why he's following; but the party doesn't appeal, all those painted faces and fake smiles, and this could be a good chance to get her on her own without the watchful eye of either Duncan or that damned paladin….

Quiet as he is, my half-elven ears pick up the sound of his steps before he can sneak up on me. Xanth is off hunting, else I would have known about it earlier. But I don't say anything; better not to let him know that I have the advantage. I somehow don't feel threatened by him, tonight – but it doesn't always do to be fooled by appearances.

'Not feeling in the party mood, Captain?' he asks, surprisingly without his usual sneer.

I don't know why – but I find myself being honest, rather than resorting to the usual cross-jibes that form the greater part of my conversation with Bishop.

'Somehow killing an old friend doesn't put me in the mood for dancing,' I shrug. He considers me for a moment, taking a swig from a bottle in his hand, then offers it to me. I take it, letting the fiery liquid burn down my throat.

'Lorne was just like me, once. I keep wondering exactly what went wrong, what could have turned him into… _that_,' I hand him back the bottle.

To my surprise he sits, and not too close either – an easy distance away. Almost companionable. His eyes are hard and distant as he replies. 'Luskan have their ways of breaking prisoners of war. It's… not pleasant.' He looks at me. 'They turn them into fanatics – take everything else away from them and they'll throw themselves into fight after fight.'

I can't help but be intrigued. 'How exactly do you know all of this?'

'I used to work for them.' He snorts at the shocked look on my face. 'Don't be so surprised, princess. You've seen the way I work. Where do you think I learned all that?'

'But… you're from Luskan? But you hate them…' I can't quite seem to fit this new piece of information into my head.

'Those Luskan patrols I told you about – my luck finally ran out one day. I got picked up in a raid and thrown into soldier training,' he shrugs, his voice flat as if he's talking about the weather, not a childhood of torture. 'I can honestly say I didn't care much for the work.'

'So why did you leave?' I ask, fascinated. This side of Bishop I see rarely – without the sneering, and the hardness, and the various masks he wears he seems almost – human. His mouth twists, amber eyes staring off into the distance.

'They were always pushing. They tried to draft me into rougher and rougher jobs. Then,' his expression sours even further 'they decided to make some _changes_ in my life. So I left.'

'That can't have been easy,' I murmur, taken aback by this rare show of honesty. His eyes meet mine for a second and then that cool sneer slides back into place – and I sense that this little trip down memory lane is over, and I'd better not be asking any more.

'Well I won't bore you with the whole story. Wouldn't want to keep you awake at night, princess,' he sneers.

Falling into what isn't quite a companionable silence, we continue sharing the bottle, passing it back and forth between us. Some part of me realises this is almost certainly a terrible idea. But after today, I find myself not caring much. I killed a man who used to be a friend, almost a brother – albeit a large, distant and bullying one. Perhaps whatever happens to me tonight, I deserve.

But the ranger's eyes for once aren't on me – instead he looks distant himself, lost in thought of his own. From the hard line of his mouth, I doubt wherever his mind has strayed is much better than here. This is the Bishop I'm used to – drowning his anger in ale. Tonight, it seems like the right thing to do.

'So tell me, princess,' he drawls suddenly, surprising me. 'Why did you kill him?'

'I… _what?!_'

'You didn't have to. According to the _rules_,' his tone makes it clear what he thinks of those 'you only had to win. You did that. Why did you kill him?'

I stare at him in disbelief. '_You're_ asking me that?'

He shrugs. There's an odd look in his eyes, an intensity I can't read, and doesn't meet my gaze. 'I know why I'd have done it. I'm asking why you did it, when you're moping out here instead of celebrating like you should be.'

I look away, mildly disgusted. 'Celebrating?' I look back at him, meeting his gaze squarely. 'He was a friend, almost, once. But the man I know would never have done such a thing.' My voice is rising with anger, but I can't hold it back any longer. 'He killed a _village_. All of them, slaughtered. Just to get what he – or his master – wanted! And he did that to _me_, knowing who I am!'

Calming myself slightly, I realise he's staring at me so hard I'm surprised his gaze doesn't bore right through me. 'You _saw_ him – he didn't care. He wasn't even _sorry_. That's not Lorne. That's… he was a _monster_. I couldn't chance letting him live.'

'A monster,' the ranger echoes. I still can't make out what he wants from me. It's clearly important to him – but I still can't work out what that look in his eyes is. But as I watch it fades, replaced by a hard scowl.

'_Monster_,' he says again. 'Aren't we all.' His hard gaze fixes me in place. 'Even you, captain. Everyone's a monster to the other side.'

Looking away, he holds up the bottle. 'Seems we're out of booze. And you should get back to your admirers – I'm sure there'll be plenty of people looking to congratulate the _heroine _of the hour.' The distaste in his voice is palpable as he pulls himself to his feet.

To my surprise, he offers me a hand. Feeling a little light-headed after all that whiskey, I take it – but he yanks me to my feet so quickly I stumble, and I reach out to steady myself – my hand on his chest. I look up – directly into amber eyes, only inches from me. He's so close I can feel the heat of his body, no armour between us this time, and as I watch his eyes seem to catch alight…

My heart seems to be beating so loud I'm amazed he can't hear it, or feel it. _Run away run away run away…_

But my body is all too aware of his hand, where he had gripped my waist to stop me falling, sliding slowly over my hip, only the wool of my dress between his skin and mine. Of his lips, slightly parted, so close I could close the gap with barely a movement. Of the hard muscle under my fingers…

I wait for the touch of his lips…

_No._

Somehow, I find the strength to step back, turn away, feeling the cold settle back around me – but it's a relief, somehow. I have got to stay away from this man. Back at the inn are my friends – my family – _Casavir_.

'Let's go,' I say, keeping my voice steady with an effort.

Behind me, he chuckles softly. 'Whatever you wish, _Captain_,' he murmurs.

There's an amused tone to his voice I don't like.

I pause outside the inn, gritting my teeth, arranging a smile on my face. The ranger passes me, and I stare at him. 'You're not coming in?'

He glances back at me, a scowl on his face. 'Since the Flagon is full of Watchmen and knights – somehow, I don't think so. I'll go find somewhere with somewhat more,' he gives me a sultry smirk – '_entertaining_ company.'

His smirk widens as he sees the look on my face. 'But you enjoy the rest of your evening, captain.' He saunters away.

'Bishop,' I call after him and he pauses. 'Get her to give you a receipt. We might be able to claim it in expenses'

He snorts softly as he walks away.


	4. Bows and Ammo

'Well met again, Dayne' I smile at the shopkeeper. He gives me his usual hearty grin and clap on the back. 'Well met, Rhade! Anything I can do for Daeghun's ward today?'

I lean in, lowering my voice slightly. 'Can I see your specials?'

He leads us in to the small back room, crammed with weapons. Here I came for the katana that glows electric in my right hand, in preparation for the battle with Lorne. I browse quickly though the collection of accessories, seeing nothing I can use, then glance around my companions. Each drawn to a different weapon, fingering blades and staves with awed eyes. Casavir hefts a greatsword, then catching my eye shakes his head, lowering it back to its place. I doubt, as does he, that his holy sword can be bettered. Grobnar already holds an impressive crossbow, but his interest is in musical instruments, and he's more intrigued by the lute I won from that idiot Cain. Shandra is sifting through weapons almost idly, testing one here or there, but unlike the others or myself, she's not drawn to one in particular. Which leaves Bishop. Searching him out, I find him in the far corner, his back to me, deft fingers lightly smoothing the wood of a longbow decorated with mithral fittings. I cast back in my memory, remembering his eyes on a similar bow on our first trip here – though I hadn't been paying attention so much then.

I consider only briefly. Despite his attitude problems, the surly ranger and his sure aim have saved my life several times over. And I can't quite shake the memory of his visit during the Rite of Tyr – those words cast almost idly over his shoulder ringing in my memory like a bell. 'If you want me to fight for you tomorrow, I might do it, I might not…. ask for me before the fight, and if so, I'll step in.'

I cross to him – a mark of how absorbed he is by the bow that he doesn't appear to notice me coming – knowing I'll have to handle this carefully. Pausing just behind him, I watch as he tests the string, the join of the fittings, then step to his side, reaching out to touch it myself. He jumps and looks at me, startled, before moving to return to bow to its place. With a slight shiver, I stop him, letting my fingers wrap around his – the touch of his skin sending warmth through me that as usual I try to ignore.

'Try it out,' I invite. He snorts softly, but draws the string back, aiming at nothing in particular – and we both stare as an arrow of flame flickers into being in the notch. He whistles softly, clearly impressed, and again begins to lay the bow back down reverentially. Again, I stop him, a simple touch to the arm this time, my eyes meeting his. 'Dayne,' I call, not looking round. 'How much for this?' The merchant crosses to me, grins as he sees the item in question. 'Lovely piece, that,' he comments, then looks at me appraisingly. His first offer is so high I almost choke on my laugh. After a few minutes of haggling, I get him down to a reasonable price, 33000, only agreed upon when he tells me both that the enchantment on the bow enhances the power of an attack and that the flaming arrows are apparently limitless. With a slight grin of triumph I look up at Bishop, who is staring at me with an odd expression, almost bewilderment, quickly replaced by his usual scowl. 'I don't need your stuff,' he growls, letting the bow drop back to the mat, and I sigh, considering how best to handle this.

Bishop steps out of the shadows, scowling. I already have a pretty good idea what he's here for – the bow from Dayne's shop, which I'd slipped in earlier and left on his bed.

'I don't want your gifts, woman,' he growls roughly, amber eyes dark in the faint candlelight. I eye him for a moment, then turn away with a shrug. 'So take it back. I'm sure Dayne'll give you a fraction of the price back, at least.' I shrug off my sword belt, knowing there's a dagger in a hidden sheath at my thigh for peace of mind. When I look back he's watching me, a look of incomprehension on his face.

'Why?' he asks, and I know what he means, can't understand why he's so bemused.

'While we travel together, we rely on each other,' I reply, keeping my eyes on his. 'You've saved my life a time or two, a favour I hope I can return at some point.' I laugh quickly, a hard sound in my throat, suddenly having to look away from those golden eyes. 'I'd have been lost in that damned tomb if it hadn't been for you.' I raise my eyes back to his, see that the bafflement has faded, though what's replaced it I can't tell. 'So it's only right that you have the best equipment – same as the rest of us.'

Without looking away from me, the ranger steps closer – somehow intimidating without even having to try, and I back off a couple of steps to the wall. He stops just inches from me, wolf eyes boring into me, and I swallow unconsciously, aware of the heat radiating from the body so close to mine. One muscled arm swings up to block my escape on one side, and his other hand strays up to stroke my cheek. 'You know, if you wanted to make it up to me, I could have thought of something more interesting,' he murmurs, his voice silk against my skin. My breath catches in my throat as I look up at him, simmering heat in his gaze.

'I figured the bow would cost me less,' I whisper back, and to my surprise he chuckles, the smile that crosses his face as much a shock as ever as it softens briefly the hard lines of his face. He steps back, letting his fingers trail over the sensitive skin of my neck as he pulls away – hells take the man, he seems to know almost instinctively where my weak spots are. Or maybe it's just a hunter's instinct to go for the throat.

'You might be right about that,' he comments self-mockingly, turning to leave.

Surprising me again, he pauses in the doorway, not looking at me, one hand on the doorframe. 'I suppose it'll come in handy the next time you decide to try and get us all killed,' he comments drily, then pads silently away down the corridor.

Closing the door after him – and locking it, for good measure – I lie awake for what seems like hours, the heat of his skin and eyes still burning me.


	5. Money where your mouth is

Having finally gotten bored with the dancing, I find myself chatting with Sir Darmon. Not bad, for a knight – he lacks the pompous bearing of Sir Grayson, who usually just makes me want to poke him with a stick. And quite handsome, too. I'm actually glancing over to the staircase, wondering whether I can invite him up without causing any fuss among the others, when a movement in the shadows draws my eye. Amber eyes.

Bishop.

And those eyes are trained on me, filled with a heat that, just for a moment, makes me catch my breath.

As if realising I've seen him, his expression clears. One eyebrow lifts, and he raises his glass slightly to me – a silent cheers, before heading across to the bar.

Without really knowing why, I tell Darmon I'm getting another drink, and follow him. In one of those rare moments when he's not looking, I take the opportunity as ever to look over the ranger. In truth, I'm surprised he's here – even more surprised that he's wearing what looks to be a clean shirt – and perhaps for the first time I can recall, the shadow of stubble is gone from his face. It looks odd, somehow. Still – with or without stubble, he's still gorgeous enough to be drawing the eyes of most of the women here now he's stepped out of the shadows. And I can't deny the dark green of the shirt brings out the best of his tanned skin and mahogany hair….

With a grimace, I snap my mind back to the present.

He turns as I approach, unsurprised, taking his time to appraise me – all of me. My turn to raise an eyebrow. A mocking smirk curves his lips.

'You look like a cheap tavern wench,' he comments, finally, but his eyes linger on my body. I give him my best seductive smile.

'Clearly still above your usual standards, then,' I flutter my eyelashes at him. 'Though it looks like you've finally taken some of my hints about personal hygiene…' I reach out jokingly to brush my fingers over his unshadowed jaw, but to my surprise he flinches back.

For a moment I'm thrown off-balance, then I smile at him. 'So come on, ranger – why don't you show me how agile you can be on the dance floor?'

-----

'Would you look at those two? And you still say she'll pick the paladin?' Neeshka asks scornfully, eyes on her best friend as the ranger draws her closer than needed for the dance.

'Say what you will, I reckon she has more sense than that,' rumbles Khelgar with a frown at the couple.

'Oh, of course. Because everybody knows that sense is what matters in these cases,' Sand sniffs behind them. 'I cannot recall logic ever having much to do with sex.'

'Is _that_ ever true,' Neeshka rolls her eyes.

'Besides, I believe the half-elf is too young in years to really appreciate what she has found with the paladin,' he continues, with a sigh. 'A love like that is somewhat… beyond her years.'

'I don't know,' Shandra comments defensively. 'She's been spending more time with him lately. And he has loosened up a lot.'

'But do you really think she'll pick him?' asks Neeshka sceptically.

'No,' grimaces Shandra. 'I just hope she will. She obviously knows enough to be trying to avoid whatever attraction she feels for Bishop most of the time. Watching those two around a campfire trying not to look at each other is a bit like watching the village idiot play tag with himself.' She sighs and raises her eyes to Neeshka. 'But I suspect in the end Casavir'll just prove too serious for her. Or too holy.'

'Well, that's a problem I can understand,' grins the tiefling.

'Women. You're all bloody mad,' Khelgar comments.

'A bet, then?' Neeshka asks innocently, reaching into her pocket. 'Five gold, on the ranger.'

'Done,' snaps the dwarf, fumbling for his money pouch. Neeshka grins, and looks speculatively at the others. 'How about you two? In or out?' she asks.

Sand chuckles softly. 'Much as I am loathe to gamble – I do believe I've seen enough of these things that little would surprise me.' He reaches for his purse and counts five gold pieces onto the table. 'The ranger it will be.'

'Fine, so none of you have faith in Casavir,' Shandra snaps, reaching for her own coins. 'I think he can win her over. He's certainly got more going for him than Bishop, anyway.'

Sand glances over as the ranger bends Rhade back, his lips momentarily tracing the air above the scar on her chest. 'That may be so, my dear,' he murmurs. 'But our dear leader is made of somewhat tougher stock than the paladin. The knight does not challenge her. She is what we'd call fire under ashes – calm on the surface, but blazing beneath. Casavir has not yet brought that fire out of her.'

'I think Bishop is enough of a storm on his own. I dread to think what would happen if she did pick him,' Shandra shivers momentarily.

'I think she'd knock him into shape,' Neeshka comments thoughtfully, then with a grin scoops up the money on the table. 'I'll hang on to this, keep it safe….' Instantly grumbles break out.

'I'll hold on to it, thank you!' Shandra says sternly, holding out her hand to the tiefling, who ruefully drops the gold into her outstretched palm.


	6. Never Again

He'd fallen in love for the first – and only - time when just into his twenties, during his training to be an assassin. Already hardened by his childhood and by his years conscripted into the Luskan army, it had taken him time to realise just what it was he was feeling. She was above him – an assassin herself, he'd met her on a training exercise when she'd shown him some basic lockpicking skills. He found most women weak – they expected men to look after them, do their dirty work. She wasn't like that.

Her name was Calliana. He'd been attracted to her from the start – but she'd rejected his advances, lightly mocking him as she told him she was no tavern wench easily tumbled. He'd stormed away, angry, but been unable to resist coming back, working in small steps, buying her a drink in the tavern, actually getting to know more about this woman than the way she looked and the way she moved. He'd thought he was under some kind of spell at first – the way he couldn't get her out of his head, the heat that consumed him when he saw her, the way his body shivered at her look or touch. It hadn't been until one of his sergeants, seeing him staring at her across the room, clapped him on the back and chuckled 'Love's a bitch, eh son? Do yourself a favour – find yourself a good whore, and steer clear. Love makes you weak in the head.' That was the point he finally realised what it was he felt for this woman.

The first time she'd taken him to her bed, he thought he'd explode. It wasn't like he hadn't had girls before – women seemed to like the way he looked, even his brusque manner, and when he wanted it was easy to charm them with a few pretty words. But she – she knew how to work his body in ways even whores hadn't, so that every time he came with an intensity he'd never matched elsewhere, gasping her name as she arched above him. He'd been too cautious to tell her of his feelings at first, and when it first slipped from his lips it was during a particularly fierce coupling, and she'd only laughed breathlessly and ignored it. Afterwards, as they lay drowsing, he'd repeated it, softly – and though she hadn't returned the sentiment, she'd lifted her head and kissed him, warmly.

The weeks following, even everything Luskan threw at him barely touched him. Battles, wounds, the harshness of training – all seemed insignificant. He felt he could do anything. He slept in her rooms almost every night that they were both not out on jobs or exercises.

He was out practicing his archery when they brought her back. She'd been out on an assassination – an ambassador of some far-flung country or other, he hadn't paid much attention. But whoever he was, he'd obviously been prepared. She'd tripped something, what seemed like a normal projectile trap, but the arrows had been coated with a strong poison. Snarling angrily at the soldiers who carried her to fetch the cleric, he took her and laid her gently on the bed, holding her hand as she shivered fitfully, whispering to her to calm her. Briefly, her eyes opened wide and she looked full at him, as if surprised to see him, 'My love,' she whispered, before falling back into her poisoned dreams again.

The cleric who hurried in cast spell after spell, trickled potion after potion through her dry and trembling lips. And in the end, sat back and shook his head. 'I'm sorry,' he sighed. 'None of it works.' Bishop had lost his temper – shouted, beat the walls, even shaking the cleric who had backed away, afraid. 'The poison – there is no antidote. It is too strong. There… there is nothing we can do but be with her.'

He'd sat with her for that first day, as she shivered and cried out, whispering to ghosts he couldn't see. Occasionally she had lucid spells, moments here or there, during which he'd try to get her to drink – but they were few, and all too brief. During the next two days her condition deteriorated, and twice he blinked back the tears choking him as he thought it was the end. Both times, her slow and strenuous breathing had evened out again as she fought against the poison taking over her system. Her stomach swelled, filling with fluid according to the cleric, a fake pregnancy – birthing her own death. He sat there day and night, sometimes drowsing in his chair, holding her hand and whispering to her that he was there as her muscles spasmed. He listened to the bubbling of her stomach that seemed the strongest life present, and smelled that rotten-lily scent grow stronger on her skin till he felt he'd never get it off.

He had been afraid, so afraid, that she would slip away as he drowsed, or during the brief intervals he'd have to leave to fetch food. When he was there, watching her grimace against pain, feeling her hand squeeze his as she battled on, he prayed – to any god that might listen – that she wouldn't suffer, that she wouldn't be afraid. He thought he would drown in his own guilt as he prayed for her to be released, feeling as though he was willing her to die, even though it was for her – so she wouldn't have to go through any more of this pain.

Finally on the morning of the third day, he detected another difference in her breathing – shallower, quicker, more like quick gasps than real breathing. She had calmed during the night, whether because the pain had lessened or because her ravaged body was now too weak to continue its fight, he didn't know. A further couple of hours later, there was a quick rattling sound in her throat, and those short breaths became quick, distant gasps as her teeth clashed together behind parted lips, her head jerking a little with each breath. He held her hand tightly, knowing it wouldn't be long. She died only minutes later – he watched until he was sure she wasn't going to breathe again – he half open eyes staring right at him though she hadn't seemed to see him for days. He stroked her hair back from her face, gently pressed his lips to the back of her hand, and left.

For a few days he walked as if in a daze – training hard but failing often, his mind just elsewhere. The pain, when it claimed him, was absolute, and he thought often of just slipping up during a job, letting himself be killed to escape the pain, to join her. That whispered 'my love' haunted him, as did her face during those final moments. And he cursed the gods for taking this one thing from him – this one person he had needed, above everything else in his life, this one person he was not ready to lose. He swore he would never pray to any of them again.

He thought he was doing ok. Those first few days, the pain seemed distant, somewhere else, and he thought he'd get through it – nothing coming close to those days waiting by her bedside. But it hit him almost a week later, after they buried her, as friends past and present murmured their false platitudes and sympathies. Having kept going, as if nothing was wrong, for those days – when the pain hit, it was a hammer to his heart, a pain at first he could not understand or explain, just a tearing in his chest that left him with an achingly permanent feeling of being uncomfortable and alone. As if a vortex had opened there, sucking everything of himself with her, down into blackness. So strong at first he could barely breathe. He'd heard the tales, the stories old soldiers told about fallen comrades, wives, children, parents even. But nothing that had prepared him. As he found himself searching through 'friends', looking for someone to help take that pain away, he realised there was nobody. He'd lived life alone, and his 'friends' were mere acquaintances – uncomfortable in the current circumstances, not knowing him well enough or being close enough to do anything that touched him.

He vowed to keep it that way. He wasn't going to feel this pain again.


	7. Home Sweet Home

She presses forward with a smile on her face as they approach the village, but he hangs back. There's something so… familiar about it. And not in a good way. He finds himself tensing, as if preparing himself for a blow.

It only gets worse when they get into the village itself. Some part of him still feels like a child in his own village, trying to duck out of sight or steal food where he can get it, keeping well out of the way of his drunken father and doormat mother who wouldn't lift a finger to protect herself, let alone him… his lip curls in a sneer. They'd got what had been coming to them, at least.

But here – everyone they pass nods or calls out a greeting, many people stopping Rhade as they see her, asking how she is, where she's been, for news of Neverwinter – anything. Everyone friendly. No-one like him here. His temper strained, he just trails after her – 'the dog she kept around for his use in tracking animals' as he'd put it himself.

Lost in his thoughts he is barely paying attention until she pauses a moment beside him. 'Still with us, ranger?' she asks in a low voice, teasing. He just scowls at her.

'As if I have a _choice_.'

She stares at him for a moment, then shakes her head slightly and resumes walking.

'Georg,' she calls with a smile. A bald man, short but heavily built, face marked with lines of both laughter and care, turns to them.

'Rhade!' he grins jovially, hugging the young woman. 'Glad to see you again! I was worried you'd been caught by the Swamp Elf!' His eyes flick over the small group, and he chuckles. 'And I see you've found yourself an admirer – well met there, boy!' To Bishop's utter surprise, the squat man claps him on the shoulder. 'Sweep her off her barstool in some seedy tavern, did you?' he asks with a wink.

Bishop opens his mouth, closes it again, then catches Rhade grinning at him, clearly amused by his discomfort.

'Oh, yeah…' he drawls, draping an arm around her shoulders. 'She wasn't even conscious when we were _married_!' She snorts softly by his side, but to his even greater surprise, she doesn't pull away.

For a second, he feels – _accepted_.

Then…

'Watch your tongue, Bishop,' raps the paladin, pushing past Khelgar to glower at him, prickling with self-righteous anger.

'What, when she's here to do it for me?' He sneers coolly, tightening his arm around her shoulders, his temper flaring. Accepted. He must be going soft. 'Come now, paladin…'

Casavir's glare intensifies and Rhade rolls her eyes, shrugging him off. 'Enough, the pair of you,' she says shortly, turning back to Georg who is chuckling.

'I see you've got yourself into another awkward situation, my girl,' he snorts.


	8. Mockery

I practically stumble into the inn, hoping and praying to any god who happens to be listening that Kana won't see me – I honestly think I'll go mad if I see any more reports. We only got back from our little recruiting trip to West Harbor – with various stop-offs – yesterday, and I haven't had a moment's peace since. If it isn't Kana asking me for some pointless little thing, it's Veedle annoying me to rebuild something or Aldanon waving some obscure book at me and spouting what generally seems to be gibberish.

Sal sees me coming and by the time I've gotten to the bar, nodding at various trainee Greycloaks, he's poured me a large glass of my favourite wine. I nod gratefully, taking a hefty gulp as I push some coins across the bar – which he waves away with a grin. 'You're the Captain. Drinks on the house.'

Khelgar and Neeshka are propping up the bar as usual, and I swap a few stories with them, enjoying the slow unwinding of the tension in my back and neck. Taking the time to glance around the bar, I spot a shadowy figure alone at a table near the fire. Sal tops up my glass, and I nod to what are now my two oldest friends before crossing the room to where Bishop sits, head bent over his tankard, the scowl on his face etched so deep the lines look to have been carved into his skin. He looks up as I approach and I flash him a grin, which only seems to make things worse – while the ranger isn't exactly friendly at the best of times, I thought we'd gotten close enough that the sight of me didn't make him even worse.

Before I've even had chance to slide into the seat opposite him, his voice cuts through me, snide and mocking in a way I haven't heard since he started travelling with us. 'Well, if it isn't the great _Captain_ of Crossroad Keep,' he drawls, leaning back over his ale. 'Something you want _hunted down_, milady? Or some forgotten trail scouted?'

For a moment I stare, taken aback, then my temper – always quick to ignite – flares and I slam my cup down on the table with a bang, leaning across the table to that mocking smirk. 'Enough of the mockery, Bishop, or I swear I'll ram that bow somewhere you won't like!'

His eyes widen briefly and I experience a brief moment of warmth as I realise my display of temper has surprised him, but then he shrugs, anger flashing in his own eyes. 'Mockery? There's no _mockery_, I'm just addressing you by your new title – as a _lapdog_ for Nasher!'

Grimacing, I snap back. 'It's not like I asked for any of this crap, Bishop. You were there – it got dumped on me whether I liked it or not.' Without thinking about what I'm doing, I reach for his arm, desperate for reassurance. 'Am I really so different from before? You're a ranger – you should know the last thing I want is to be cooped up in some mouldering castle.'

At last he raises his eyes back to mine and studies me for what seems like an age, and I see a little of the anger fade from them – to background levels for Bishop, anyway. He shrugs. 'Guess I've been let down enough to wonder. Glad to see you're not just another of them, anyway. I mean who would really want something like this – a squire, a painted shield, and some false code of honour to keep their back stiff as a board for the rest of their days?'

I snort softly, and curse myself for the habit. 'Casavir?' I suggest, and finally get a chuckle out of him, always a surprisingly warm sound from Bishop, and one I aim for as often as possible – it makes me think that perhaps there's something more to him than all that ice, the bitterness and anger.

'No, the paladin would probably find the Keep too grand for him, he wouldn't feel comfortable unless he was sleeping in a ditch somewhere,' he murmurs. Then he glances down to where my hand still rests on his arm and his eyes return to mine with an amused look in them, and I feel the blush start as I snatch my hand back.

'Speaking of masochists, if Kana comes in here, I'm casting invisibility and you haven't seen me,' I warn, slumping back in my seat. He snorts softly.

'Saw her stomping her way out to the farms with some of the 'cloaks for a night-time training session, so I guess you're in the clear for a while,' he nods at me.

'Thank the gods,' I sigh with relief. 'Every time I look around she's waving some report at me, or something to sign. Sal?' I indicate across the room and the tavern keeper gives me a thumbs up, quickly pouring more drinks which he brings over to us.


	9. Losing Myself

She has to admit, the presence of the ranger is all she can manage. The others – their pitying or bewildered gazes, their comments about respecting sacrifice – Casavir in particular, though normally he'd be the first she'd turn to for comfort – in this situation, she can't bear him. Bishop… well, he's more likely to say she should have saved her own skin. And besides, she remembers earlier as Ammon had gathered his power, preparing to crush them, the fire in the air sending her stumbling back – until strong arms had caught her, wrapped around her, and she'd felt that slight brush of stubble against her cheek. So tonight, at least, she can put up with the ranger. Besides, so far he hasn't tested her patience by trying to say anything.

As if hearing her thoughts, he leans forward to top up her cup. 'Well now, Captain – sitting in a corner knocking back the ale is normally my job, isn't it?' She snorts softly, smiling seeming too much effort, doesn't bother to reply. As if understanding, he leans back again, and doesn't push her – she's grateful to him for that. She gulps half her wine, tops up both drinks, then signals Sal for another bottle. 'Pushing the boat out, are we?' Bishop murmurs. From the corner of her eye, she sees Casavir frown, begin to get to his feet and scowls. She stands, taking the bottle from Sal's hands, and nods to Bishop. 'Let's get out of here. I can't stand all the staring.' He raises an eyebrow quizzically, but gets to his feet and follows her out into the cool night air. 'That's better,' she sighs, holding out her arms to stretch.

'So where do you propose to finish this?' he asks from behind her, and she turns to look at him, briefly. Those eyes seem fathoms deep in the moonlight, and she considers her choice. Just a few weeks ago, she wouldn't have allowed herself to be on her own with this man, especially not drunk. The battlements would be safest. But cold. She shivers slightly, then turns away. 'There must be some reason for having that stupidly big room,' she replies as she walks toward the main building. A soft chuckle from behind her. 'The paladin wouldn't be too happy that you're inviting me to your bedroom,' he drawls.

'The paladin can go fuck himself,' she says bluntly, then glances around at the shadowy figure of the ranger beside her. 'And before you get any ideas, that's about all you'll get tonight as well.'

A snort is her only response. But she's glad he's there. It saves being alone with her thoughts. At least until the drink erases them. The slightly fuzzy feeling to the world tells her she's already well on her way.

Her 'personal suite' is at least big enough to have a couple of decent sized chairs, a fire, her desk – piled high with the paperwork that Kana is always ferrying around. She ignores it and drags the second chair over to the fire, handing the bottle to Bishop to pour as she bends to light the fire. She doesn't bother with the lamps – the fire is light enough for her half-elven eyes, and the ranger is sharp eyed enough. He hands her the wine and she relaxes back, while the rage and the guilt swirl around her head. A couple of times she's half-aware of Bishop saying something, but the roar of her own thoughts and the thump of the anger in her heart is too loud for her to hear.

'What are you so damned miserable for?' he asks abruptly, the sharpness of his voice this time breaking through to her. 'All this melancholy just because the silly farm girl got herself killed?' Leaning forward, those wolf eyes gleam coldly as he stares at her. 'From what I hear, you've been saving her useless arse since you first saw her and all she ever had for you was curses.'

Rhade stares at him. Ok, so it's Bishop – but she hadn't expected him to be this harsh, this cold, over someone they'd travelled with so long. Someone who'd also saved her own arse on several occasions. 'And what would you know of friendship, Bishop? From what I hear' - she mimics his tone – 'the only company you can manage to keep is that you pay for.'

She sees the scowl on his face deepen and knows she's hit her mark. But he's not going to back down. 'And you don't pay for your company, _Knight-Captain_?' he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm, drawling the title. 'With your sword, your spells, your life for these people and this stupid town?' Her anger rises up and she feels her fists clench, but he goes on, his words slow, measured, every one finding it's mark.

'They pushed you aside and ignored you until they needed you – or more likely, what's buried inside you – to fight their war, to keep the big bad enemy from their door. And she was just another to get in the way and need your rescue, just like the rest. You should be glad she's dead,' he finishes contemptuously.

In her mind, something snaps. Her fist lashes out of its own accord and catches him full in the face. He staggers back, surprise in his eyes, but quickly replaced by a hint of – she's not sure – satisfaction? He reaches up, his fingers coming away red, his gaze not leaving hers, and the fire in his eyes leaps and burns into her.

Gods, the anger feels good. She's bathed in it, washing away the numbing emptiness that's claimed her since she'd seen Shandra's still form sprawled at Ammon's feet. But… there's no battle here, and she can't fight…

Anger… anything to feel something other than that horrible void. Her mind a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions, she does what seems the most natural thing – she steps forward and kisses him, tasting the coppery tang of his blood in her mouth.

Bishop reels back from the punch, one hand automatically rising to his mouth. Blood. He looks at his fingers in some surprise. While he'd long known that the Knight-Captain had a temper, he hadn't expected her to lash out like this. Though even he has to admit he fully deserves it. But better than her being locked away in her own head – he's been trying to bring her out of herself. It just seems he'd been more successful than he'd intended.

So he's taken even more by surprise when she suddenly steps forward and kisses him, hard. Before he's even had time to respond, she's pulled back, and he watches for a moment as she licks his blood from her lips, her eyes burning into him. After all those games… He can't think of any sight that's aroused him so much in years.

He pulls her back to him, his lips searching hers hungrily, pressing her body to his forcefully. Her lips part easily under his tongue and her hands reach up, tangling in his hair, pulling his mouth harder against hers. His mind is already reeling that this is finally happening, that she's finally yielded to him, when her teeth nip lightly at his lower lip and what little thought remains is drowned in the need to feel her, here, now.

He pushes her back against the wall, his hands sliding down her back over her rear, cupping her buttocks and lifting her against him. Her legs wrap around his waist, drawing him closer, and he can't suppress the moan that escapes him, desperate to feel her, his shirt as thick as leather under her hands as she searches for the hem – and finds it, finally slides her hands beneath, the smoothness of her touch like a drug on his skin as her fingers trace the scars on his chest. He drops his mouth to her throat, feels her shiver against him. It's her voice, soft and breathless, whispering his name – 'Bishop….', that drives him beyond the edge, and he's fighting the knotted drawstring of her trews, finally opening them, letting the thin cotton trousers slide over her hips as her teeth bite into his shoulder. He draws back slightly, some distant part of him afraid of letting go, afraid of what he could do to this woman, could do _with_ this woman, only to find her eyes boring into him like twin flames, her teeth baring slightly into a snarl under his scrutiny, as she pulls him forcefully back to her, and he lets go willingly – for the first time he can recall. Until a hard shove recalls him and he stumbles back as she approaches him, kicking her trousers from her ankles, shrugging off her shirt, and reaches up to un-knot the binding of her breasts – and for a moment she pauses before him, barely giving him chance to take in the curves of her body before she shoves him back again, hard, and his knees strike the back of the bed, her bed. He lets himself fall backward, reaching for her, bringing her tumbling back with him, and she gives a quick, triumphant smile – her fingers reaching down to deftly undo his laces. He groans softly as one hand cups him, keeping him restrained while her other hand slides his trousers down. As she draws her hand away, she lightly brushes her fingernails along the underside of the shaft, and he shudders – turning, pushing her back against the bed, and she responds instantly, reaching to draw him into her, arching against him as he drives deeply, burying himself in her. 'Bishop,' she gasps again, and once again the sound of his name on her lips seems to strike to the core of him, sending him wild as he pushes selfishly against her – her nails scoring his back, her head arching to present her throat to him, and he can't resist bending his head to bite at her throat. The pain seems to rip a choked cry from her throat, and as he quickens his pace each thrust brings a fresh sound from her lips as she pushes back against him, her rhythm matching his, and then he feels her tense against him – every muscle tightening, and she bites deeply into his shoulder as the shudders begin, stifling the scream that threatens to arc from her lips as the ripple of her muscles sends him spinning over the edge out of control, and he gasps his orgasm against her skin.

Drifting in the golden glow afterwards, her fingers trace the lines of cuts and burns over his chest and stomach – not asking for any stories, she is seemingly content just to learn the lines bisecting his skin. He idly trails his fingers across her shoulder where his arm rests, realising for a brief moment that he's enjoying this moment, instead of his usual quick plotting to get away. He turns slightly, dropping his head to look at her – surveying his prize – but the usual triumph, and the urge to escape that accompanies it, doesn't hit. Instead, he lets his fingers trails lower, over her waist, and she looks up at him, the slight sleepiness clearing from her eyes as she leans up to kiss him. As she pulls back she flashes him one of her best mischievous smiles. 'Hope you've got a good recovery time,' she murmurs, her fingers stroking down over his stomach, following the golden brown trail of hair that streaks down his stomach until they tug lightly at the honeyed curls at it's base – and he feels the arousal begin to burn slow again, as she rises and shifts to straddle him, her body slotting easily over his as if meant to be there.


	10. Help

I carry the small lamp to the bedside table, settle the book on my lap, begin to read. Sand was right – there's some interesting variations on basic fire spells here, and I'm soon lost in the intricacies.

Until a sound distracts me. I look to the door, but it's closed – I'd locked it when I came in, hadn't I? Must have just been some of the drunks from downstairs…

Something moves by the window, and I drop the book, scrambling off the far side of the bed, grabbing a katana from the sword-belt hung over the bedpost.

The ranger smirks at me from beside the open window, seemingly amused as I point the sword toward his throat.

'Bishop,' I breathe, fighting the pounding of my heart, the adrenaline rushing through my system. I refuse to show him he's scared me.

'There's a perfectly good door, over there,' I nod toward it flippantly.

'Well now, princess,' he murmurs, pushing away from the window and taking a couple of slow steps toward me. 'That rather depends on whether you'd have let me in… given the way you've been avoiding me lately.'

'What are you talking about?' I bluff – badly. My hands are shaking from more than just the shock now.

'You know what I'm talking about.' Only the bed is between us now, and he's still moving – slowly, stalking me as if I might spook and run like a startled deer. 'Ever since…' he pauses, looking me over slowly and letting a knowing smirk curve those cruel lips… 'Since the last time I was in your chamber at night, as I recall.'

I have to admit the phrasing is a lot less crude than I expected.

'You got what you wanted, didn't you?' I ask. Oh, clever. I try desperately to marshal my thoughts and regain some composure, but my heart is hammering in my chest still. Why is he here?

He pauses at the end of the bed, clasping a hand over his chest. 'You wound me, witch-girl.' His voice is mocking, but there's a core of steel beneath it. 'I thought I meant more to you than that...'

'No, you didn't,' I retort. 'We had some fun. But you and I? You're dangerous, ranger. Why would I get involved with you?'

'Dangerous?' he repeats musingly, only the steel of my katana between us now. Unnerved, I finally step back, cursing myself for the weakness – but it does me no good, as he continues, and within seconds my back hits the cold stone of the wall.

'Dangerous… but what are you afraid of, witch-girl?' he asks, his fingers trailing along the flat of the blade barely an inch from his throat.

I'm frozen… and unable to answer. It's something about those amber eyes… or maybe it's my own traitorous body, remembering the touch of those deft fingers, that cruel mouth. Desire uncoils in my stomach, sending tingling roots to every extremity.

'Are you afraid of me?' he continues, his gaze boring into mine as slowly he pushes the sword to one side, stepping into the space it creates. His left hand caresses my cheek even as his other hand wraps around the hilt of my sword, pulling it from my grip.

I should push him away… I should…

He lets the sword drop, with a clatter, to the ground.

'Why don't you do what you want, take what you want, for once?'

His lips are so close to mine. 'Or are you afraid of what they think?'

He leans closer…

'My lady?' A knock at the door. 'Are you alright? I heard a sound…'

Casavir… the sword dropped to the ground.

Bishop freezes, pulling back the slightest bit… his spell broken, giving me chance to breathe.

'What'll it be, witch?' he asks so softly it's almost a whisper. 'Are you going to let the paladin save you?'

There's a look in his eyes, almost resigned… almost… afraid?

'My lady?' Casavir's voice sounds worried.

'I'm fine, Cas. I dropped my sword cleaning it is all,' I call.

'I see… would you like me to help? You must be tired…' He still sounds worried.

'It's fine. I think I'll just sleep,' I call.

'My lady... I wish you a good night then. I'm sorry for disturbing you.' I look back up at the ranger, who remains inches away, barely breathing, as the knight's reluctant footsteps retreat back down the hall.

His eyes wide with something skin to wonder – and triumph – and then his mouth closes on mine in a fierce, urgent kiss.

I let the desire wash away my conscience.


	11. Fencing with the Devil

'The Captain prefers two swords as opposed to a shield – it makes her more dangerous to fight against, but also leaves her more vulnerable,' Casavir explains. I watch their earnest faces as she leans against the wall. He's asked me to come along and provide a demonstration to the small band of Greycloaks he's picked out for elite training. Not really my cup of tea, but he's so damned _sincere_ about it, and I have to admit a small band for special missions is probably a good idea – the men barely made it through the last one.

I face off against Casavir, and he gives me a quick encouraging smile. The wooden practice swords feel odd, heavy compared to the slim blades I usually work with. We trade parries, him blocking some of my strikes with his shield while I fend off his longsword.

'Quite a demonstration,' a sneering voice comes from the sidelines. 'Do you want them all to end up dead, fighting like that?'

Bishop, of course. Lounging against the wall of the Keep, the sun striking red and gold in his mahogany hair.

'Maybe you'd show us how it's really done, then?' I ask, a challenge in my voice.

He grins, moving closer to me – predatory, his eyes tracing the curves of my body as he pads silently around me.

'Just you and me, Captain?' he asks, his voice low, sending a shiver down my spine. Damn him. Already I'm wondering if he'll slip into my room tonight.

I just grin at him and he nods, pulling a pair of practice swords from the men. Casavir puts a hand on my shoulder.

'My lady...' he begins, a concerned look in his eye – but I shake him off. Bishop I can handle. And I haven't fought him since… Since the trial. Part of me is looking forward to the challenge, especially since I know I've improved.

I drop into a fighting stance, and we circle, each looking for an opening. He's the first to strike, a swift flurry that I block, then pulls back again.

I shift and press my own attack – leading into a feint that somehow – somehow – distracts him enough to let me land my first strike on his arm. He scowls, pressing forward in earnest now, wooden swords a whirlwind as he inexorably pushes me back. He lands his first strike, the sword slamming into my hip.

'Too slow, Captain. Guess you should be standing back playing with your spellbooks,' he smirks and I growl, my temper getting the better of me. Unfortunately I get too close and he grabs me, twists me round, his arm tight around my neck. I feel his breath against my ear, then his voice, soft. 'You know, if you wanted to work out some aggression, I could have thought of better ways…'

I tilt my head slightly toward him, letting myself relax with an effort and pressing slightly back against him. I hear his breath catch momentarily. 'Do you like it rough, ranger?'

He growls softly, and I feel the warmth of his lips run from my ear to my neck – and his grip relax, just slightly, but that's all I need.

I ram my elbow back into his stomach, winding him slightly, and twist away in enough time to land my second hit. Technically, his choke hold marks a strike, which makes us even.

'Third time's the charm, ranger,' I murmur. Amber eyes blaze at me angrily, and he snarls as he attacks. No holds barred this time – my own fault for playing that trick on him. I'm hard pressed to fend off his dual swords, as he pushes me back toward the wall – but with the ferocity of his attack, he's intent only on my swords. He twists one from my grip sending it flying into the crowd, but that gives me an opening, and I duck quickly - my sweeping kick taking his feet out from under him. I move to straddle him, but before I can bring my remaining sword to his throat and claim the match, he drops both his weapons, his fingers wrapping around my wrists. Yanking my arms from under me his twists his hips quickly so it's me pinned to the ground under him. I stare up at him in shock for a moment then grin.

'Got any other weapons to finish this with, ranger?' I ask softly. His lips curve in a diabolical smile and he drops his mouth close to my ear, shifting his hips deliberately against me.

'Just one,' he murmurs.

'You know, holding a woman down doesn't count as foreplay,' I whisper, and he chuckles quietly.

Then louder, he growls '_Yield_.'

I yield. I can't get my hands free, and my legs are pinned by his body above mine. If this were a real fight, I'd probably try to headbutt him in the nose – but I don't think he'd appreciate it, and besides I'm the one that has to look at him most of the time.

To my surprise, he offers me a hand up, amber eyes alight with desire and a dark amusement.

'Always a pleasure, _Captain_,' he sneers mockingly, but his gaze holds a promise.

It's no surprise when he slips into my room, later that evening.


	12. Late Night Battleground

He stands by the bed, unable to sleep. She hadn't woken when he got up. He stares down at the sleeping figure, then his eyes stray to the dagger on the table beside him. He knows he won't do it. How many chances has he had now? It should be so easy. He scowls – this woman is making him weak. Stopping him doing what he needs to do to protect himself.

He'd thought that once the hunger for her wore off, he'd be able to do it. But if anything, it had only got worse over these last months. Though he still kept his room at the inn, he rarely slept there – in fact, these days most of his gear was kept in her room, here. She's tying him down – yet another reason to get rid of her. He swore he'd never be tied to one person again. But here he was. And if she didn't already know about his past, she would do soon enough – probably as soon as Duncan found out who she'd taken to her bed. That man wouldn't be able to resist.

Duncan… the thought of him, briefly, makes his fists clench. Another reason. He has to die, once this debt is fully repaid (_but it was repaid long ago_) – and the girl would hardly stand by and let him do away with her uncle. He snorts humourlessly. Family. They barely even knew each other, yet they're instantly ready to fight for each other.

A soft murmur from the bed draws his eyes back down. She's still asleep, her face creased into a frown, one hand up as if warding something off. Maybe she can sense him here, trying to get up the nerve to do what he planned. He takes a couple of steps back, as if that will calm her. Her head is up – her throat exposed. He could bury that dagger in it without the slightest resistance. But the only thing he wants to do is bury his head there, hold her, forget all this. Until the next time it keeps him awake in the middle of the night, battling with himself.

She sits with a cry, one hand clutching at the scar on her chest. He knows her dream – she's told him about it before. Where the shard in her chest is ripped out of her, and she wakes alone and unarmed in a silent room far away. She looks to the side where he'd normally be, realises he's gone, looks around. 'Bishop?' she asks softly as her eyes sweep the room and settle on him.

One more time.

He moves back to the bed, crouching beside it, tasting her lips and feeling the fire rising again. The battle going on in his mind shouts to be heard, but as she pulls him with her back onto the bed it fades, protesting, into the background, and he lets himself be lost in the feel of her.


	13. Drinking Contest

_Finally! An update!_

_Sorry for the delay - I've been working my arse off. I'm writing up my thesis at the moment, despite spending all my time writing things on the computer, fiction still sooths my soul. I'm focusing on my Bleach story (Evolution Devolution) and trying to put together a couple of NWN2-based oneshots I half-wrote about a year ago, but I want to get back onto this one.  
_

_However, I have a minor problem with the set-up of this particular series. See, I've set the damn thing so it flows through the game - but now I want to go through and add bits in between. What do I do? Do I move everything around, or add them in at the end and pout a note on as to what's new? I don't want to break the flow, but it's confusing if I start adding random chapters in the middle. Or I may just go back and do a rewrite. What do you think, what will help?_

_Sorry, this is my first story, so I'm not very organised :) Also a lot of this was written a long time ago, and I'm gonna rewrite a couple chapters, so apologies if you keep getting random alerts._

_This is a short one, but there will be more._

* * *

"Tol' yer…." The dwarf's slurring voice trails off and his brow wrinkles in bewilderment. "Tol' yer… somethin'."

"Yeah, yeah, Khelgar. We know. You can outdrink any of us." Neeshka's voice sounds more steady than I trust mine to, but she rolls her eyes at me with a small grin as the dwarf's head slump down on the table. I nod, silently, and the room spins crazily around me.

Oh _gods_. What in the Nine Hells had possessed me join in a drinking match? With a dwarf famed for downing his ale in barrels and a tiefling with all that… fiendish resistance, and stuff?

I was _really_ going to regret this in the morning. Even with Sand's patented hangover cure.

Between us, we manage to lug the unconscious dwarf up the stairs. Once deposited on the bed, we take turns tugging off his boots – I laugh at the way Neeshka wrinkles her nose as she does so - and detach the heavy axe from his belt before exiting and drawing the door closed.

I manage a wink in what I hope is the vague direction of the tiefling before making my own shakey way back down the corridor – slowly, concentrating on my steps. Don't fall don't fall don't fall….

I yelp in surprise when an arm snakes out of the doorway beside me. Then Bishop pulls me to him, his voice silk against my ear as he whispers 'So is it only the dwarf you're tucking in, _Knight-Captain_?'

Glancing back up the corridor, I catch sight of Neeshka's grinning face – blurry though it is - peering round her own door. 'Neeshka's watching,' I manage, but my attempt to step back is prevented by the fact I really think she might topple over if he wasn't holding onto me.

The ranger's eyes flash golden in the dim light, and his fingers tangle in my hair, and hells, it feels good. I can't help giving in as he pulls my head up for a deep kiss.

'So?' he asks softly, and with a quick wink back up the corridor to the tiefling he draws me into the room, kicking the door closed behind us.

* * *

_Let me know what you think - comments, concrit, all welcome. If you think I suck, tell me why. if you like it... well tell me why too :) Otherwise my next story will suck just as bad lol!_


	14. What Happens in Arvahn Stays in Arvahn

_Inspired by an actual *gasp* game-playing moment. Not very romatic, a bit more serious, but maybe a bit more my normal writing style (read: angsty, lol)._

_As ever, reviews get cookies. or at least virtual ones._

* * *

We'd handled this place well so far, I muse. The first Baelnorn had gone down fairly easily. Since then, touch wood, all we'd found is some skeletons and ghasts - annoying, but nothing we couldn't handle.

Happening upon the wraiths, I plunge confidently ahead – taking out first one, then through a doorway to another, round the bend to yet another – my katanas slice easily through hazy flesh. And it's only when the last one falls in a heap of rags to the ground that I realise, at one and the same time, that my companions aren't behind me, and that I can hear the sounds of a much more desperate battle.

Running quickly back around the wall I pass Bishop - the others are outside, something dark blocking the doorway. And I realise with fear it's another Baelnorn.

_So much for easy._

I plunge into the fray, katanas ready, hearing Casavir calling to Tyr for strength on the other side of the door. A grunt behind me and heat sears the side of my face as a fire arrow speeds past me, and I glance back quickly as I yell to Bishop to watch it – just in time to see the pale red flames of a negative energy spell descend from somewhere up above to hit the ranger. The bow clatters from a suddenly nerveless hand and I realise I'm screaming his name as amber eyes roll back and he folds – silently as ever – to the floor.

Throwing myself at the thing in front of me with renewed fury, I hold it off with one sword while frantically casting a magic missile – I hear Zjhaeve's accented chant from beyond the door, and our two spells hit at once, sending the Baelnorn reeling to its doom. I spin and run back to the ranger, checking for a pulse, checking breathing, relieved to find it. Even more relieved I'm with a paladin and a cleric as I scream at them to help. Casavir's mouth folds into that odd reluctant worry that seems to appear whenever Bishop is down – I don't concern myself with it, since Zjhaeve's healing is quicker and she's already praying.

Typical Bishop, his eyes snap open almost as soon as the final word is out of her mouth and already he's reaching for his bow, before he focuses on me above him and pauses, weighing up the scene briefly.

'What in the hells happened?' he asks gruffly, then a mocking smile crosses his face. 'Not that waking in a womans lap with a bugger of a headache is unusual, but generally I've had the pleasure of drinking first.'

I can't stop a relieved laugh, but Casavir turns away with a pained expression. 'Negative energy spell,' I explain. Bishop sits up, grimacing, one hand rubbing the back of his head where it had connected with the stone floor. 'Bastards,' he mutters before pulling himself to his feet, and I slither back to mine behind him with a grateful nod to Zjhaeve, who merely gives me an unreadable smile.

Casavir's heart seems to be burning in his chest as they walk, lost in his own thoughts. After the calm he'd seen in the last burial place of the four knights, and the conversation he'd had there with Rhade, his heart had felt lifted, though only briefly. Her smile, her touch on his arm as she told him his were noble actions, had been enough to warm him.

But during their trip through the gem mines, the hordes of undead had been unsettling enough. And he had been shocked when she had told the very first spirit they'd met that patriotism was a foolish notion – a notion anathema to him. A paladin _lived_ for lord and land – there was no greater sacrifice than that made by the man who became the Guardian!

Even worse, of course Bishop had agreed with her, coldly stating that patriotism was just another way to wring more blood from peasants and fools. He'd seen that triumphant smirk cast his way, as Bishop stepped closer to Rhade, his vile hand brushing her shoulder.

The discomfort in his chest had begun then.

It had only increased later as he saw her crouched on the floor by the ranger's still form, screaming for help, and for a moment had been relieved – a feeling he should not have! No matter how obnoxious the ranger could be, he was a _paladin_. It was his _duty_, his life even, to help people – but no matter how hard he tried, the couple of occasions when the ranger fell during a fight he found himself at war with his own conscience, desperately wishing they could just leave the man where he lay.

And now, as they search out the next location, the next statue, Bishop leading the way through the trees, Rhade moves up to walk with him. He's seen the way the ranger has been looking at her all these months – but lately there's been something of a look of triumph in the man's eyes when he looks Casavir's way. As if he's winning.

And the knight can't deny that though Rhade speaks to him often, there's something in the tilt of her head, in the occasional quirk of an eyebrow at the ranger as if sharing a private joke, that makes him uncomfortable. Bishop has made no secret that he's not here by choice – the ranger is here for the killing and the loot, and that's it.

It's obvious to Casavir, at least, that as a travelling companion he isn't to be trusted - likely to sell out the little group should someone offer him a better deal.

But Rhade seems to trust him, despite everyone's warnings. And if she does – he may not have a chance to save her.


End file.
